Wait in an Unvisited Room (For . . . .) / Poems by K K Srivastava



Poems by K K Srivastava




Wait in an Unvisited Room


(For . . . .)


This is the room I have been in,

for thousands of years, imprisoned,

doors locked-I stay alone,

the clock on the wall- rusty, wonky,

memories collude,

halting kisses recall the night.

Captured- I go near

finding none of me there-

an aloneness or a loneliness?

You come;

telling me-you are not alone.

Am I not with you, always, feel me,

I am in your thoughts, your memories,

Go there, time and again, I wait for you there-

but go alone; I love your lonesomeness-

it is inscrutable, I love your inscrutability:

it gives me to me.

This room is a jungle:

of shadows divorced from their oneness

time ticks away; rusty clock, that mirror in it;

so many mirrors within a mirror,

look at me with eyes stony, mummified-

now only emptiness accompanies these eyes.

You-a verity- emerge;

telling- fill your emptiness with me, absorb me,

there is always darkness before dawn;

love darkness-be a part of it-let it be part of you,

let darkness suck you.

You-whispering into my ears-

I am there in my new avatar,

my lips drop wine for you; I: nonplussed-

my thirst for wine was quenched long back;

dry lips but quenching.

I don’t need wine

these lips no longer sate me.

You tell-look into my eyes-talk to me-

I will meet you there

through my eyes;

pleasures become curse;

my momentariness pulls me apart;

the room gets cramped and more cramped;

walls get skewer.

Compressing me;

an old pang

stays anew; with you or without-

thinness of time cuts across my melancholic torpor

I want to wake up.

Celestial door-ajar;

you are there; and you entreat don’t go, sleep, I will lull you further;

don’t leave me; you know I also wait for you, unconfessedly,

see through me, know me, don’t go out-for I will become alone.

That rusty, unstoppable clock,

time ticks away- a sense of indifference-

I get my freedom: life breathes within me.

You a puzzle,

another piece of jeweled- self,

set riddles-

that sit down, awaken,

beside me.

Time held aloft,

One day, in this very room,

I would become a stranger to myself,

painting on halved blankness.


Dedicated to poet “Pash” and his poem-“Aab Vida Leta Hoon.’         




  1. K. Srivastava is a poet and reviewer living in India. His fourth book-Diary is expected to be out next year.

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